Verdant veracity of the

vertebrate lawn rumbling

in an amalgamation of tongues

about the dangers of sunglasses.

In the house I drink my sunscreen.

The fly watches from

his trap embittered.

I’ll move through death

like a wind in my veil.

He’ll stay still and desiccate.

The lawn has done the

back-breaking work of drawing

meaning from dirt.

I can’t see the arms through

all the wisps of greenery,

but something is being

grasped preciously,

the edge of the sidewalk,

and the personhood of the

greenery is undoubtable.

Urban mysticism,

a religion of glass.

I see myself in the mirror,

and behind my image the

team watches.

I have stolen air that was not mine,

evidence stored in my metallic

blood strong enough to build a

steel city.

What electronic theology is this,

the images flashing in the cameras?

There are detailed views

of the selves,

the only blind spot at

the left hand.

Competing ideology,

steel towers with winding

staircases up the shaft.

At the top,

a thin and hopeless soil,

a contented yesterday,

a bumblebee bumbling.

In the kitchen,

electric suns and a scorched

rain roiling up from the metal

crust like the flood Noah would

not have survived.

Hungry, I still turn away

from the last few seconds

of deserved and unearned life.

My life lays over me like a bib.

What bullets does it block

from my breasts?

Through the window,

filthy afternoon trudges in

from the rails like a hobo.

Every table in the dining room

is set to the music of

scoundrels naming their children.

From the kitchen,

streaming remnants of

finish lines.